The Dowry Blade (40 page)

There was already quite a crowd. Brede settled onto the side of a horse trough to wait her turn. She could see the green and red-cloaked captains moving through the assembly, taking names, issuing slips of paper, giving directions. She watched the gradual shifting of bodies, and pulled her hat down over her eyes. She could smell horse bran. It seemed that would do very well under the circumstances.

A green coat blocked her line of vision.

‘No,’ the captain said immediately, recognising her, and starting to turn away. Brede made a swift grab at the tail of her coat.

‘Maeve. Don’t turn your back on me.’

Brede was very glad that her leg would not allow her to go on her knees, because the temptation was there, and she would sooner die than give in to it. She had every intention of taking the food, joining the march out of the city, and then melting into the nearest trees, and making her way somewhere, anywhere else, no matter how slow her progress. With the witch gone, there was nothing forcing her to stay, she had choices again, and the city was too dangerous now.

Brede kept a firm hold on the green cloth. The back remained turned. Brede shaped her lips around
please
but couldn’t force the word out. She would beg on the streets, but she would not beg a friend for help, nor would she beg Maeve, who had never been a friend.

Maeve pulled the coat from her grasp. She surveyed Brede, her hands planted on her hips.

‘You must be out of your mind. We’re after volunteers, not mercenaries.’

‘So I’m volunteering.’

‘Why?’

Brede shrugged, then decided to tell the truth. She stood up.

‘Look at me. Do you honestly think anyone would hire me? I can’t remember the last time I ate something I hadn’t stolen. You want anyone who can hold a sword. Well I can do that. So I’m volunteering.’

‘I am looking, Brede. What I see is a wreck. Can you swing a sword as well as hold it?’

Brede reached for the longsword. Maeve held up a steadying hand.

‘Not here. I don’t want a demonstration. I’m not going to send you onto a battlefield you aren’t fit for, Brede. I don’t want you dead.’

Brede subsided onto the edge of the trough.

‘And what will you say to Tegan, when she comes?’

‘Tegan knows what she is about. You don’t,’ Maeve said distractedly. She sighed, doubting Tegan would come and pulled a slip of paper out of the scrip at her belt. She gave it to Brede. She was prepared to bend the rules and get some food inside her, but she would not take her into battle. Maeve didn’t need Brede’s brand of trouble; she had enough of her own, and Brede had always been trouble. Brede waited for an explanation.

‘Food.’ Maeve reviewed the condition of Brede’s clothing and she pulled another piece of paper loose and held it out. ‘A cloak. Take it to the quartermaster. For Goddess’ sake, Brede, you know the drill. Then get out of my sight, so I can forget I ever saw you here.’

Brede was not given a chance to thank her. Maeve was away and about her business. Brede looked at the pieces of paper. At least she knew where the quartermaster was.

There were queues forming. She joined the one for food: her most pressing priority. She recognised some of her fellow refugees from the stable. The young lad, and his mother – they exchanged the slight nod of recognition allowed amongst their caste. A beggar had no friends, at least, not amongst other beggars. Brede smiled.
Maeve, of all people
.

Brede reached the top of the queue, and carried away the bowl of thin broth and slice of bread. She found a corner to crawl into and gave her mind to the problem of getting her stomach to recognise warm food. It seemed determined to spit her offerings back. Chewing the bread made her jaw ache. The broth burned her. She had to take it slowly, and rest afterwards, allowing the solid lump in her belly to settle. She took her precious piece of paper and joined the next queue. The true citizens were beginning to filter through now; youngsters, eager for blood, older folk, grim, silent; turning their new weapons over, doubtful and alarmed.

Brede collected her new cloak and wandered slowly out into the practice yard, still careful to disguise her limp as far as she could. The more eager recruits were being given some last minute training in the use of their short stabbing swords. Brede watched, wincing at their ineptitude – she didn’t expect that any of these untried volunteers would return from the battle. Brede saw them only as vulnerable skin, with blood pulsing too near the surface, and she wondered at the gibbering intensity of fear that drove them. Brede turned her thoughts away from the feast there would be for the Battlemaiden, and leant on the fence rail, surreptitiously taking the weight off her leg. She had been there some time when she heard another familiar voice, giving full vent to fury.

Brede turned. A small burly man was fighting with a horse that towered over him. It was an ugly brute, hopping on its back legs, attempting to concuss him with its front hooves. Brede considered the shape of its head, the set of its ears.
Plains bred
. She whistled sharply, two short bursts. The horse stopped hopping, grounded its front feet, and stood stock-still. Eachan wrapped the reins swiftly about the rail next to Brede.

‘And you’re no better, you arrogant mare,’ he said to her, his face still thunderous. ‘Make yourself useful and bring out the other beasts, instead of standing there daydreaming.’

Brede laughed.

‘It’s good to see you again, Eachan.’

The master of horse stared through her.

‘I’m glad to see they’ve had the sense to hire me someone who knows horses. I’m grateful for your help,
Stranger
. The last time I had proper help with the beasts was when we had a lass from Wing Clan. Now they know their horses. She’s been dead more than two years now.’

Brede’s heart sank, recognising the same response she’d had from Maeve and from Tegan. Like having a ghost rise up at your feet.

‘Not a safe place this city now, too many people asking questions. If I had any sense I’d hie me off almost anywhere else. Now are you getting those horses or not?’ Eachan risked a real look at her. ‘You look terrible,’ he said bluntly.

Terrible didn’t cover it. The woman he remembered, even when she had been pining for the Plains, had a spark to her, an inner vibrancy that was gone. She was too bony to look fragile, but she looked ill, much as Grainne had done towards the end, exhausted and lacklustre. He watched as Brede draped her new cloak over the rail and headed into the stables. He shook his head, guessing at what had lost her that spark and left her so shadowed.

The smell of the stables was so welcoming it brought tears to Brede’s eyes. It was not the familiarity of the horses alone that affected her; she had been so lost in her loneliness for Sorcha that she hadn’t realised that she was lonely for her friends. She was grateful for Eachan’s kind word, so grateful for his warning, useless though it was, that she couldn’t control a new rush of grief. She wiped her nose on her sleeve, and slapped the nearest horse on the rump to make it move over.

She worked as steadily as she could, saddling, bridling, leading out. She recognised some of the horses, and deduced that she had better stay out of the way when their riders came to collect them. Reluctantly she accepted the lack of strength in her body and rested regularly to still the tremors in her arms and legs. It was an unexpected pleasure to be among horses, talking to them, touching them, their hot breath fluttering about her neck. She was almost content.

When the last of the horses was ready and many were already being walked about the yard, she hovered in the stable, mucking out, refilling the mangers, exhausting herself; waiting for Eachan to come back.

By the time he arrived she was fast asleep in the hayloft.

Eachan stared down at his onetime assistant, sprawled in the hay with the Dowry blade beneath her hand. Eachan kept his eye away from the blade after the first startled glance. He felt a yawning guilt at his impulsive action so long ago, putting that blade into her hand; and a yearning to make everything right for her, if only he knew how. She looked younger asleep, even more vulnerable. He was alarmed at how thin she had become, at the lines etched into her face. He tried to remember how old she was. She had always seemed so young, but now – Eachan didn’t want to wake her. He went quietly away, down to the paddock.

Leaning on the rails, he watched the few spare horses, the ones no one trusted to ride into battle, despite the lack of mounts; among them, a speckled grey, with a distinctive white streak on its back. Brede’s own horse. She should have been to the knackers long since, but Eachan was getting sentimental about animals in his old age. He whistled her up.

Guida’s ears pricked in surprise. She came willingly, looking for treats, but the old man opened the gate and let her through. He walked her, without touching, up to the yard. She was happy to walk beside Eachan, as he talked to her companionably about nothing. Into the stable she went, and stood still for him to saddle her. Placid, content.

Eachan wasn’t sure that he was doing the right thing. Guida was distinctive, but he couldn’t let Brede have any other horse. What use she made of his rashness was for Brede to decide. Eachan filled the saddlebags with grain. He brought in Brede’s cloak from the practice yard, and went to his own strong box, and took out the two long knives that had lain there ever since Guida was led back, saddled but riderless. They were well polished and sharp, he had taken good care of Brede’s belongings. He strapped them onto the saddle. He remembered the long length of the Dowry blade lying under that very saddle strap.
A mistake
. And this?

Eachan inspected his handiwork. He thought Brede would understand. He didn’t go back up to the hayloft. He didn’t want to have to say goodbye again.

Chapter Forty-Four

A clear, sharp light fell across the field of battle. The generals were satisfied. The ragged army – a handful of warriors leading a mismatch of butchers, smiths, midwives and children – was massed at the foot of the cliff. They had made sure they had no room to retreat – they must fight or die. On the ridge above, the generals stood; the marshals, the messengers, the herald – and the witch.

An oddity here, unmailed, bareheaded in the freezing wind, her blue robe fluttering as she lifted her arm to shield her eyes; she took a long slow look at the enemy.

‘Can you do it?’ the general asked. She nodded slightly, bringing her breath under control, measuring distance and the direction of the wind. Oh yes, she could most certainly achieve the task they had set her.

The marshal strode past her, invading her quiet space. The witch glanced contemptuously, and he jerked to a halt, and backed away slightly. She searched the blur of motion on the far side of the heath, a much larger army than the frightened chaos below her. And somewhere among them; the king, held captive. And that was, in some way, her fault. She had failed these people once, although she could sense the nearness of that sword, an irritation in her skin. So close, but too late now. So she must make amends, she must win this battle for them. It would not be easy, but she could do this. The witch smiled to herself, and raised her hands, pulling in the wind, moulding it to carry the ultimate weapon against that massing army. The generals stepped away, frightened at the sudden roaring of the wind, and at first, they didn’t hear the sweet, clear notes that were borne away on the air, to settle on the enemy. They watched as the witch tied the rebel army in chords of deathly music, as pure as the ring of hammer on anvil...

Killan was not the sort to be at the forefront in a battle. He sought out the generals and the marshals, people who would need messages taken, who would remember the good-looking, helpful, available, efficient – people who would remember him.

But this was no ordinary battle, and it seemed he was expected to get in there and fight. He was, after all trained, unlike so many. Away in the distance was a drift of banners, red, green – people he knew were there, people he – no, it would be too much to say people he loved. People he hated. Maeve. Inir. Perhaps even Tegan would have dragged herself away from her inn for this? And what would he do, forced to fight, if he found any one of them at arm’s length? Killan raised his arm to rehearse a killing blow, and found that he could not. A disconcerted murmur ran through the people around him. No one could raise their weapons. Killan let his sword fall from his hand, tried a step, and then another, away worked, towards did not. Well enough. The green and red banners were on the move, Killan turned and ran. It was not long before he heard screaming, and a handful of his fellow rebels caught up with him as he raced for the tree line and what he hoped would be safety.

News of the victory had reached the city, bells rang out, and the singing had started. Ashe flinched away from the noise, smiling nervously at the joyous faces about her, hiding the fact that she didn’t rejoice with them.

She found a market stall that was as oblivious to the merrymaking as she and managed to stock her satchel with food by pointing at what she wanted and counting on her fingers. Annet was patient in a bored fashion, and stared through her when Ashe discovered that she had been short-changed. Annet knew that a mute was hardly about to call the town guard. Ashe scowled and left. She needed to be gone from here before the army returned, and with it people who would recognise her, what did a few coppers matter? Despite the angry indifference her mind was holding, her heart was leaping with anxiety.

Annet’s eyes followed her, noting the route she took. She couldn’t quite credit what she had seen, but she knew there would be gold for the information she had, if it was believed. She glanced round quickly, and caught the eye of a beggar-child watching her stall with bright focus. She beckoned it over – she couldn’t tell the sex, too young to be significant.

‘Do you know your way about here?’

The child nodded cautiously.

‘If you take a message to the miller at the tower mill, I’ll give you enough food for a whole day. He’ll give you a token to show you delivered the message, bring it back and I’ll feed you.’

The child nodded again.

‘Can you speak?’ Annet asked sharply.

‘Yes.’

‘Well then you say to the miller: the songster is walking home.’

‘The songster is walking home.’

‘Off you go.’

She watched the child scuttle across the market in the right direction and went back to her wares.

Brede started awake, confused by the sudden clamour of bells. She peered out at the yard below her. The battle was over so quickly. She climbed stiffly down the ladder to the stable, and there she discovered Guida, saddled and ready. She understood. She would hie herself off somewhere, anywhere, else – but Brede wasn’t ready to go, not quite yet. She stilled her excitement and impatience. She petted her horse, who didn’t admit to recognising her, until she spoke to her in the tongue of the Horse Clans. Then Guida blew hot air onto her face, and laughed, in the way of horses. Brede slapped her, impatient, but pleased. Guida was too old to be ridden hard. So where to go, other than away?

Brede had no intention of returning Lorcan’s sword to him, determined now to escape the witch’s calling spell, but she didn’t want to wander aimlessly. She thought briefly of the Marshes. The mere idea of being tied down in the cold dank atmosphere of her mother’s home made her desperate.

The child clutched the little bag of flour the miller had given her and caught her breath for the long walk back to the market. She glanced up at the sky to judge the time and saw a man silhouetted against the light, on the roof of the mill. As she watched, he leaped down on to the roof of the house next to the mill, and set off at a run.

Killan caught the whistle as he was closing his street door. He glanced up and moved swiftly back into the house. As he reached the top of his ladder, Haran from the mill pushed the shutters in.

‘Message,’ he said quietly. ‘The songster is walking home.’

‘Doesn’t seem very likely. Says who?’

‘Annet, on the market. No imagination that one – if she says that’s what she saw, then it is.’

‘That’s so. Thank you, I will pass this on.’

Killan waited for Haran to go, then went thoughtfully down to the lower floor, crowded with wounded rebels, those who had run for their lives, understanding the limitations of the witch’s spell, those far enough back in the ranks not to have met the first onslaught of Lorcan’s rabble.

‘Revenge, anyone?’ he asked, as the general pulled himself through the trap door from the cellar. Madoc regained his dignity.

‘Always revenge,’ he said softly. ‘What do you know?’

Brede was still sitting in the stable, undecided, when the first of the soldiers came back. She started up guiltily, hissing at the pain the too swift movement caused her, but it was Maeve. She looked sickened and angry, and scarcely gave Brede a glance.

Still here?
her gaze swept the saddled horse, and a smile flickered into the corner of Maeve’s mouth. She gestured to Guida, and spoke to her companion, a woman Brede didn’t know.

‘Warriors have become butchers, and dog meat gets dressed up as riding material. Why not? And a ghost to ride it.’

Brede waited, uncertainly. There was a strained quality to Maeve’s voice that she had heard before, a dangerous sign. The stranger took Maeve into her arms, and Brede felt the brush of armoured glove against mail as if she were between them. It hurt, that gesture. She tried not to think of Sorcha’s hands, not wanting to see warmth between these two, not wanting to think about the possibility of caring for anyone.

‘It is not your fault, you didn’t know,’ the stranger said, her voice soft and protective. Maeve didn’t concede to the tone, remaining harsh.

‘But I should have. They should have told me.’

‘Told you what?’ Brede asked, unable to contain herself. The stranger released her metallic grip on Brede’s ex-captain.

‘Told us they’d hired a witch. Told us we weren’t fighting a battle, but committing a massacre. We had a right to know, a right to make a choice.’

Brede frowned. Why had the volunteer army been sent out to fight, if the generals had persuaded the witch to help? Why a massacre?

Maeve crossed her arms, protective, defensive.

‘I’m a soldier,’ Maeve continued, sounding as though she needed to convince herself. ‘It’s a profession. There are rules, things to respect, but this? It’s no use expecting volunteers to behave like an army. They don’t understand the rules. We could have won the war without spilling a single drop of blood with the witch, but now? The worst thing is, our glorious leaders liked it. They have no respect for us. If they want to do this sort of thing, they can do it without my assistance.’ Maeve’s voice cracked on that last word. And she trembled. Brede laid a hesitant hand on her arm. Maeve shook her off impatiently.

‘What will you do now, Brede? This city isn’t a safe place for you. I can’t think what possessed you to come back.’

Brede shrugged. A new notion was taking root in her mind. She hugged Maeve to her, for the first time, for the last time.

‘Stay safe,’ she said. ‘Be strong’; meaning it more than she ever had before.

Brede pulled the brim of her hat down to shade her eyes, and headed for the eastern gate. The time had come to visit the witches, to hand over to them what little she had left of Sorcha; it was time to start her life again.

An hour on the east road, and only a few others had decided to leave the safety of the city yet, unsure of the thoroughness of the destruction of the rebels. Brede rode briskly, but not at a speed that might indicate fear – purpose was the impression she needed to give, that and her new green cloak should protect her for a while. Ahead of her she could see someone from whom fear radiated – a beacon of terror, limping already from unaccustomed haste.

As Guida’s shadow fell over the woman she flinched to the edge of the road to let her pass. Brede slowed to a walk beside her.

‘Walking doesn’t seem to suit you, lass,’ she said gently.

The woman kept walking, glancing back nervously. Brede considered what she must see, the bony shaggy horse, none too clean; her own patched and dirty clothes and battered riding boots, the long, dull-edged sword banging gently against her shin. And the incongruously new green cloak, draped across the hilt of the sword and caught on the saddle. She would be frightened herself.

‘I was going to offer you a ride, but –’

The woman waved her on, still not risking eye contact.

‘I was thinking to myself, here’s a foolish rich woman in clothes that are totally unsuitable, going for a stroll in the forest, thinking her money’s safe because she’s hung it between her breasts.’ Brede paused and the silence was broken only by the persist clatter of metal and creak of leather. ‘Don’t worry; I’ve no designs on your money. I’m thinking: has she run away from her hand-mate who beats her?’ It was not what she was thinking at all, but Brede kept up her gentle, non-threatening, one-sided conversation.

The woman shook her head, raised a protective shoulder, annoyed perhaps, now, as well as frightened.

‘No? I was thinking, I should do the sisterly thing and help you out.’ Brede eyed the young woman with curiosity, taking in the short silky hair, the absurdly fine clothing. She was feeling generous, secure in her sudden wealth of friends. ‘But you’re not running away, are you?’ Brede continued, testing out the new persona she had found for herself, this new, friend-rich person, who it seemed, could talk forever.

Ashe shook her head. She stared up at Brede, trying to judge what to think of her, how far to trust her. She was not unlike her horse: bony, grubby, and older than was comfortable for what was expected of her. A battered, broad brimmed leather hat disguised much, but Ashe could see greying hair, tightly bound, and a face that was scarcely more than an impression of sharpness harshly lined, the cheekbones prominent from long hunger. A hawk-like nose, the shadow from the brim of that disreputable hat disguised her watchful eyes. Ashe wondered, in a distracted fashion, what colour they were.

Brede bowed with exaggerated courtesy.

‘Will you accept my offer?’

Ashe, ashamed, shook her head.

Brede sighed, and gathered up her reins.

‘No need to thank me.’

Ashe looked up, stung by the reproach. She grabbed the reins and hesitantly placed her fingers against her mouth and shook her head. Brede frowned, thinking suddenly about silence, thinking about Kendra. Had she imagined that?

‘But you can hear?’ she asked at last.

Ashe nodded.

‘Do you sign?’

Brede let go of her reins again, stripping off her gloves. Hardly believing that she had found a use for her laboriously learnt skill, she made one sign after another. Ashe shook her head, and absently admired the strength in Brede’s long fingers.

‘That means we are two women alone.’

Ashe saw that she was offered communication, and hope gave a small, uncomfortable lurch. She repeated the gestures awkwardly. Brede gazed at her consideringly, wondering whether she really wanted a companion, whether this involuntary urge to assist was misguided.

‘My name is Brede.’ She shaped the sign, smiling to herself at its other message,
strong
; well, perhaps. She moved her hands again. Ashe watched closely, trying to make sense of it.

‘Will you ride with me?’ Brede repeated aloud.

The witch stared at that hand, it was not the hand of an old woman, worn, certainly, but strong and strangely beautiful. She glanced back up at the ravaged face, puzzled. Their fingers made contact and Ashe marvelled at the feel of it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d touched another person’s skin.

Brede could feel the lack of experience with which Ashe scrambled up behind her grabbing the scuffed and ragged leather of her belt, forcing the sword into movement as she balanced its weight.